Bloodstream
by SassyQunari
Summary: Kirkwall is all but a distant memory for a fugitive apostate. Still, even as Hawke and Fenris pursue sanctuary, war follows close behind, hot on their heels. The Orlesian White Spire demands retribution, whereas the Andrastan Seekers seek Hawke to curb the violence. And for one who has dabbled in the forbidden arts, the lure of Blood Magic is ever present – lurking, always.


**Welcome to the trip, man.****  
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**I won't bore you with a long introduction. This project is very special to me. Once, I thought to complete it in its entirety before I exposed it to the world, but I have learned, I work best under pressure (pressure that does not come from myself, that is). Therefore, this ambitious piece is very much a work-in-progress. Please enjoy! And leave feedback, if you would? It would be incredibly appreciated. Thank you! **

**Special thanks to my beta for this chapter, and to LoquaciousQuark who aided me in characterization with Fenris.**

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Boasting a Chantric emblem, well-armed men and women scuttled across the rough Esterelf terrain, dutiful spiderlings that carried out their orders without question. Ivory armor glinted beneath the moonlight as the militia pressed forward, and the woodland groaned in rage at those who disturbed its aging peace.

Ingrid kept focus on her bulky aurum boots, vaguely pondering their fit and speculating the chance she might make an exchange once back in Starkhaven. It would take longer than her poor feet might prefer, she realized, vaguely discontent, until their path would reverse. Ingrid was certain that their quest would take the troop as far as Wycome before the Knight-Commander apprehended their elusive target. Only her unwavering sense of duty compelled the woman forward to combat the uncertainty that hung as heavily in the air as the thick evening fog.

Philemon halted, and Ingrid followed suit. Her breath curled out ahead like lingering smoke as she lifted her eyes, hazel widening at his silent command. Ingrid followed suit as her fellow Templars dispersed, inexplicable premonition raising gooseflesh along her exposed skin. The guard assembled itself into a strategic crescent around a dark cavern she could only catch in glimpses. Tension manifested in silence as the guard held its ground, awaiting command.

In that coiled woodland, whispers of a war that was just taking root rustled as quietly, as threateningly, as the foliage beneath her feet.

An elf tread softly out into the open, silhouetted against a shaft of icy starlight. As if he could not perceive its weight, he curled his pointed gauntlet around the hilt of an enchanted greatsword and lithely withdrew it from its sheath. His muscles tautened instinctively against the autumn chill, and the lyrium that webbed across his skin flashed angrily; glistening emerald followed soon after.

"Why do you come here?" His growl was low, hostile, and beneath the moonlight, Ingrid likened him to a wolf.

Philemon stepped forward, discreetly signaling his men to lower their weapons and leveled his steady gaze upon the elf. "We seek Hawke." The Knight-Commander did not command the flamboyance that his city insisted upon. He paused and added deliberately, "The _apostate_."

The stern elf maintained his poise; the disdain that furrowed his brow was both vague and transitory. Each word he measured carefully, and even so, he chose poison. "_Leave_." It was a command, and he was a former slave that demanded obedience.

No elaboration followed, although Philemon indulged the dense silence out of courtesy. The elf remained stagnant; his gaze was as firm as that of his antagonist. He would not humor the Templar with gratuitous banter; he valued his tongue more than to waste it on those he intended to slaughter.

In a line of archers, Ingrid fingered her bow uncertainty, having drawn it a little too tightly.

"I have no quarrel with you, elf," Philemon finally spoke, his armor groaning as he advanced. "However, if you do not step aside, I will kill you, and we shall find her regardless." His threat lingered in the air between them. He spoke after an extended silence. "Retrieve your master."

It was a poor choice of words, and if Philemon was as well versed in legend as Ingrid, he would have apprehended his mistake. Fire ignited in emerald; his snarl was low and threatening, but no hostility could follow for another spoke in his place.

"Fenris has no master."

If at all possible, the elf stiffened further.

Hawke emerged from the shadows and glided past him; her mere appearance whet his gaze and sharpened emerald into a formidable razor. All present focused on the lissome women – all except Ingrid. Ingrid looked at the elf.

She could not detect softness in the thin line of his mouth, nor intimacy in his narrowed brow. Ingrid frowned, having thought Hawke was his lover. His eyes remained hard, even harder than before, as if it could pierce her flesh as easily as the arrow nocked against her taut bowstring. Ingrid shuddered.

Hawke scrutinized Philemon in rigid silence; he did not balk and returned her stare. "Well," the Champion finally spoke, easing into airy nonchalance as her focus steadied upon Fenris, "I suppose I knew we'd have to move on sooner rather than later, but it was a _lovely_ cave while it lasted. Wouldn't you agree?" He did not answer, congealed in tension. She took no notice and continued wistfully, "There was a bit of an unfortunate draft, but I suppose that had something to do with living in a cavity in the earth."

Ingrid decided that she rather liked the apostate.

Hawke waved her hand dismissively and withdrew her carved staff as though it wasn't an instrument that could condemn a man to death in both flame and insanity. "Ah, but so is the life of a fugitive apostate. Wouldn't be quite as _romantic_ without the cave squatting, even if it is a bit…moist."

Fenris shifted restively, discomfiture lining his features. "Hawke," he cautioned.

Hawke regarded the elf with a gentle smile, her cobalt gaze locking tensely upon him. Ingrid mistook the gesture for intimacy; rather, it was a veiled reassurance, steadfast and perhaps somewhat arrogant.

"Let's see," Hawke mused, her insouciance flouting expectation, "as you and you cohorts have yet to assault us, I suppose you are _not_ here to kill me."

Philemon, who had remained rather silent thus far, finally spoke, "You might pay for your crimes with your life, Hawke, but that is not for me to decide."

Fenris sneered, his knuckles whitening as his grip tightened on the hilt of his blade.

Philemon continued, undaunted, "You are under arrest, Rowan Hawke, on the charges of homicide, conspiracy, circumvention of Chantry law, aiding and abetting, destruction of property, and harboring of a fugitive. Submit willingly, and no harm will come to you or your companion."

Silence. Ingrid shivered.

Hawke sighed laboriously and probed, "What are my other options? I don't like that one." Under duress, she maintained her sanguine tenor. However, close examination would reveal her hardened gaze and rigid posture; Hawke was not entirely calm.

"You are outnumbered," Philemon reminded her starkly, and her gaze raked over those amassed at his side, confirming this statement. "There is no better option, Hawke. Either you acquiesce," he paused heavily and leveled his focus upon Fenris, "or the elf dies. I am under no constraint to keep him alive." Philemon signaled his men calmly; archers lifted their bows and warriors withdrew their serrated steel.

Her nonchalance dissipated instantly. Hawke inhaled sharply, her composure shaken. Softly, she pondered, "Now, let's see. Do I respond well to threats?" Hawke gazed icily at Philemon, all pretenses cleanly disposed of. "I don't believe I do."

"That is," Philemon paused, searching, and concluded, "unfortunate." He hesitated, frowning. "I urge you to –"

It was sudden, startling even Ingrid as the arrow lifted into flight. The Marcher stared blankly at her quivering bowstring, momentarily incomprehensive. Steel flashed hotly, catching moonlight as Fenris darted forward, deflecting her arrow and intercepting its deadly flight path. Ingrid watched in dull horror as it tumbled to the earth before its target – Hawke.

This time, Fenris looked at Ingrid.

Hawke wasted no time in assuming a defensive stance. "I suppose small talk is over," she issued harshly. Mana hummed eagerly beneath her skin. "You'll take me as a corpse or not at all." Hawke lifted a hand above her head as sapphire energy came burning to effervescent life within her fist. Releasing that energy downwards in a harsh, clawing sweep, the Champion conducted an invisible force that plucked several men off their feet and cast their frail bodies onto the forest floor. There, she stole their lives ruthlessly in a conjured tempest that blackened their corpses.

Months spent undercover, where only furtive action was permitted, had left Hawke restless. Taking life brought her no joy, but she would _relish_ this.

The Fade was itching for a release.

As the earth trembled beneath her feet, Hawke drove men to insanity as Fenris smeared the moonlit woodland in blood. Violence came in swift strokes, a mere byproduct of a spartan dance. Hawke channeled ice through her staff and skirted past an archer Fenris soon impaled on his blade. Her staff coiled elegantly within her grasp as Hawke readjusted her stance and speared an assassin tailing behind her with its bladed end. Blood stained her raven hair. At her side, Fenris twisted sharply and barely deflected the onslaught of a Templar Knight-Captain. Curling around his lateral parry, Fenris quickly disengaged and executed a vicious fatal blow.

Lyrium radiated as the elf stalked his neglected prey. Ingrid discarded her bow, lifting her short blade; it trembled within her frail grasp. Fenris withdrew a stiletto and his eyes flashed. He feinted, lunging forward in her sudden vulnerability and traced blood across her neck, severing her carotid artery. Ingrid gasped, staggering backward. Impatient, Fenris enclosed his fist around her throat, blood coating his gauntlet. Lyrium flashed hotly as he reached inside her chest and tore her heart from its frail cavity. Her corpse buckled and fell, soon forgotten.

Elsewhere, Hawke crippled an opponent with her staff, executing a swift blow to the head. Combat provoked somewhat inebriating adrenaline that pushed her only further and _further_. Her mind whirred loudly and beyond that, voices whispered that she could not yet fully comprehend. Hawke stalked her antagonist with a serrated smile, and fire crackled to life within her hand as she extended her staff.

Suddenly, the voiceless muttering grew louder and _louder_, a threatening crescendo. Hawke gasped in pain as the unintelligible whispering perverted into a shrill, deafening scream. Her grip slackened on her staff as the mage staggered, incomprehensive.

Steel glimmered in her peripheral. Hawke twisted, barely catching the blade before its impact. Her opponent forced his blade downward, and her grip trembled against her staff. As his weapon edged closer and the screams grew louder, her desperation intensified. Hawke cried out and released her magic in a wild telekinetic burst that sent both herself and her antagonist flying backward.

Her head bashed against a jagged rock as she collapsed limply against the terrain. Hawke hissed in pain and clutched her forehead. Her pulse thundered loudly. Too loudly. The mage staggered to her feet, entirely disoriented. An adversary leapt forward and instinct compelled her rather than mindful direction. As flame devoured his broad frame, Hawke retched, stumbled and vomited across the soil. Her vision distorted and remained indistinct even as she muttered husky restorative incantations.

Only his howl brought her clarity.

An anxious chill swept across her skin. Cobalt darted, locking upon an angel crippled at his knees. _Fenris_. Philemon loomed above him wielding a crimson longsword. Detail evaded her and perpetuated a growing panic. In her mental torpor, she could hardly comprehend the situation.

Her vision spotted. Hawke inhaled copper, ran her tongue across her lip and tasted a thin, metallic substance. His agony fused with her own until her ill mind could not extricate her sanity. Anger consumed her. Later, Hawke would attribute the cloying whispers to a feverish delusion rather than a demon's influence transcending the Fade. Blood thundered in her ears and pooled at her wrists as Hawke carved into her own flesh with a discarded blade.

Power surged within and thrust Hawke into an entirely different, although no less toxic, delusion. Her heart pulsated rapidly within her chest as blood lifted from her wintry skin and coiled around her thin frame. A wild gleam sparked within cobalt as Hawke extended her hand, reanimating a corpse sprawled across the terrain behind Philemon. Its blade acted swiftly and without mercy. As the Knight-Commander staggered, wounded, Fenris swiftly targeted the skin exposed above his knee and lunged forward, slicing into his femoral artery. Philemon collapsed.

Horror claimed the moonlit landscape as men turned on one another, caught in a wild frenzy. Her blood fueled that chaos, their anguish its dissonant accompaniment. Crimson soared as the apostate swung her staff in a wide arc across the sky.

Clarity of mind remained elusive even as her enemies lay dead at her feet. Hawke lurched forward unsteadily. A hand clasped her forearm, staying her blood loss as she approached the debilitated Knight-Commander.

"You resort...to _blood magic_," Philemon spat.

Hawke hesitated, then lowered herself, crouching at his side where she gauged his injuries with quiet apathy. Her face remained pale and still; his spite did not burden her. Philemon coughed and spluttered as blood wet his lips. Hushing him softly, Hawke ran her trembling fingertips across his cheek and leaned forward, murmuring softly, "But I'll kill you with a blade like any other."

His gasp was silent as her knife slipped between his ribs.

The screaming still rung within her ears even in the deafening silence that followed. Flames flickered weakly in the shrubbery that surrounded the carnage, the last sign of life. Hawke collapsed limply on the forest floor and thought of broken promises and burnt flesh.

Fenris stirred at her side.

Hawke twisted, her own pain dismissed entirely. Scrutinizing his injuries soon did away with her vacuous indifference. Her head throbbed as she fumbled through the rough leather pack at her waist. Spirit restoration was hardly her area of expertise, Anders typically harbored that weight, but in his absence even her minimal aptitude was an adequate substitution. Hawke ingested a lyrium potion and placed a hand radiating light on her forehead as she withdrew a poultice. Her eyes flashed in distress as she examined the various lesions that marked his body. Chanting heated restorative spells, Hawke spread a regenerative poultice onto a fresh cloth and placed it against his foulest wound, a laceration that curved unevenly across his sword arm.

"_Don't._"

Hawke halted mid-incantation, concern glinting within cobalt.

"Do not…touch me."

Hawke felt as though he'd slapped her across the face.

Her throat tightened, and she inhaled sharply, salvaging her composure. Her answer was brisk. "And would you rather I let you bleed out?" Hawke avoided his stare pointedly.

"I am sure you could find some use for my blood," Fenris spoke softly, his insinuation sharp.

"Ahh, yes. Perhaps I'll _harvest_ it," she quipped in return, inexplicably intent on priming an additional poultice. "You never know when I'll need to summon a demon." Her tone was dry and sardonic.

"Do not make light of this, Hawke."

Fenris flinched as she applied unnecessary pressure onto his wound, continuing as though he had not spoken, "Oh, or better _yet_, I could use it to repaint my bedroom. Maker knows there'll be enough." Hawke paused. "Could call the shade…_Bloody Elf_, it'd be rather fitting, don't you think?" Cobalt lifted, revealing irritation and masked injury.

His scrutiny did not soften. "You do not have a bedroom," he pointed out flatly and hoisted himself upwards.

"And you're stuck like a pig," Hawke retorted sourly. "Stay _still_."

As if to spite her, Fenris jerked away, lifting himself to his feet although his body ached in protest. "You have condemned yourself a maleficar," he spat.

Hawke did not stir initially, not until she decided against the pursuit of an unwilling, vindictive patient. "I'm not certain they have it in them to relay the message," she said in return. "All seem rather _dead_ to me."

Fenris narrowed his gaze, brow knotted in frustration. "They certainly _are_," he drawled and brushed past her coolly, heading due East.

Hawke released a cry of exasperation and followed. "Andraste's _ass,_ Fenris. Don't act like you give a sod about their lives. If I had killed a hundred more with a sword, you wouldn't have batted an eye."

"Of course not," Fenris growled and turned on his heel. Fire danced within emerald. "Severing their heads with a _blade_ would do far less damage than severing the Veil, openly exposing yourself. You dangled a piece of raw meat in front of a wild mabari." Fenris advanced. "Your mere _inclination_ to participate in blood magic renders you susceptible to their influence. It reveals a willingness to consort with a _demon_." His voice trembled with cold fury.

Tension fostered silence. His anger was palpable; she had forgotten its breadth. It perturbed her somewhat, but Hawke was hardly one to surrender so easily. "I cannot seem to recall becoming an abomination, Fenris. Do I truly look that bad?" The mage challenged him, dark humor glinting within her cobalt eyes. "Have I _sunk_ to that level? How should I appease you?" Her tone mocked him, and she could sense his growing impatience. "Should I get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness for doing what was _necessary?_ You'll forgive me if I'm not inclined to do so."

"Evidently _not_."

His anger was a burden he harnessed with rigid discipline and learned suppression. Fenris valued control; his every movement was crafted as deliberate and individual. He endeavored to control even his most animalistic instincts; he would be slave to no man, nor any emotion.

Still, even Fenris was known to _slip_.

"I am sure Orsino thought his blood magic was _necessary_ as well. He knowingly sustained Quentin. Will you come to accept that too?" Fenris snarled, well aware that he would scathe her.

Hawke recoiled. "You _bastard_," she hissed beneath her breath. "Don't you dare use my mother's death against me. I had no _choice_. He would have slaughtered you."

"A mage will always find a way to justify their need for power." His wild eyes narrowed, fixing upon her. "How long will it take for a demon to corrupt your mind, I wonder? Perhaps you have already submitted to their taint. You act a fool."

Her laughter was short. "That is bloody rich, coming from you. You approached the Templars on your own, _without me_." Hawke advanced swiftly, lifting a hand to his chest to shove him backward. He snarled in return, only further incensed. "Fade _take_ you, Fenris. What did you think you were doing? Were you trying to get yourself killed?!"

"Venhedis!" He spat. "I could ask you the same, Hawke. Did survival truly compel you?" Fenris loomed above her and seized her wrist to recapture her attention as she averted her gaze. "Or was it _power_ that led you to tempt fate?" His gauntlet dug into her flesh.

"To the Void with that!" Hawke struggled against his clutch in vain. "You've poisoned yourself with this blind _hatred_."

"Like Merrill poisoned your mind?"

Her hesitation was brief. "And what would you have had me do?" Hawke snapped. "Submit to the Templars? Oh, you'd _truly_ be free then. You could even join their crusade."

"It is a worthy cause." Fenris sneered and pressed against her, causing Hawke to retreat until her back was pressed against rough bark.

"Bastard!" Hawke gasped breathlessly. "How can you _say_ that? After all we've been through?" Hawke twisted harshly and demanded, "Let _go_."

Fenris snatched her other wrist instead and smiled mirthlessly, taunting her, "Will you control my mind with your magic since you so despise what I have to say?"

"Will you strip me of it so you can sleep better at night?" Hawke snarled, struggling to no avail. "I bet you'd love that. Your own Tranquil puppet. You could spout off your prejudice unchallenged, and in bed, you could _fuck_ the ragdoll you lust after." She spat on him and felt victorious as his features twisted in rage.

"Have you forgotten so soon?" Fenris hissed. His eyes glinted manically. "The destruction your dear _abomination_ wrought? Death in the Chantry, bedlam in the streets." His grip constricted painfully around her wrists. "_Oh, they have good reason to fear you._"

Her eyes locked upon his with fiery intensity, and Hawke stilled.

"Do you fear me?"

Fenris stared blankly at the mage caged beneath him, clearly taken aback.

"Is that why you want to control me?" Hawke murmured, her voice soft, yet strangely grating.

Fenris stared at her, entirely frozen. He trembled, frustration pulsing hotly beneath his polished veneer. His grip slackened somewhat.

Hawke tilted her head forward with languid grace and purred, "It's too bad that you _can't_."

His aggression resumed in full as he thrust her back against the towering oak, his control finally shattering. Fenris regarded her with fury in an instance of tense silence before his mouth crashed down upon her own. His kiss was brutal, and even as she struggled beneath him, he would not release her. Her mouth parted at his demand, although not without reluctance. Bark dug sharply into her back as his body pressed against her own. Hawke snarled, loath to remain submissive. Fire sparked across her skin, enough to deter Fenris momentarily. In his hesitation, she twisted away and shoved him backward, claiming his mouth hotly as she twined her fingers in his hair. Fenris faltered, then drew her closer.

He tore away soon after and retreated. Emerald blazed, flickered and died. Fenris hissed beneath his breath and averted his focus, his chest still heaving unsteadily. Hawke relaxed weakly against another tree, watching him with tired eyes. Silence ensued as Fenris mulled quietly.

Finally, he spoke.

"I fear what you could become." His answer was certain; he met her gaze evenly. "You have seen firsthand what blood magic can do, Hawke. We both carry the scars. Why do you _insist_ on defending what you have done?"

Hawke faltered, vulnerability exposing itself in a flash. Her lips parted, then closed.

"It was for you."

Emerald darted upward, glinting in frustration and, soon after, exasperation. Fenris sighed, regarding her tiredly as he muttered, "Festis bei umo canavarum."

_You will be the death of me._

He often said it, and Hawke often wondered if it was true.

Now, more than ever.


End file.
